Don't Mess With My Man
by Insomniabug
Summary: the where Gaby is a flaming ball of fire


The feel of soft silk swishing around her thighs never fails to make her feel out of place.

Home is a well worn cotton jumpsuit, grease permanently staining the cuffs and creases.

(Home is large, calloused fingers trailing down her back.)

She ignores the memories lest they consume her. She has many questions in need of answers…but one question more important than all the others.

Seeing her target in sight, she pulls back her right arm and uses her speed-walking momentum to add weight to her punch. The sickening sound of crushing bone nearly outweighs the sudden pain radiating through her knuckles. It's not the first time she's punched someone, but she always seems to forget how much it actually hurts. The unlucky recipient of her right hook immediately tries to staunch the blood flowing from his now broken nose.

"What the hell Teller!?"

Instead of answering, she swings her left arm up and points a gun at him.

"Where is he?" She asks, her fingering hovering over the trigger.

The American agent, whose name she thinks is Sam, at least has the decency to look ashamed, but in her opinion, not ashamed enough.

"I don't know." He responds, his speech muffled as he talks through his hands.

Gaby steps closer, her kitten heels bringing her only eye level to his chin. There are times she appreciates her petite frame, but now is not one of those times. Even with her gun pointed at his chest, he doesn't seem threatened. For some reason, men always seem to underestimate her because of her size.

(The stupid ones don't hold onto that opinion for very long.)

"You coward. You were supposed to stay with him."

"We were outnumbered." Sam sneers down at her, still managing to look like the entitled rich boy he is.

"And yet, here you are."

"Hey, I barely got out of there alive. Don't get hysterical just because your Commie boyfriend isn't here to hold your little hand."

There are times when Gaby doesn't understand how easily Illya manages to lose his temper. The times when he destroys an entire hotel room in less than a minute flat.

This is not one of those times.

Without considering the consequences, Gaby pistol whips Sam.

As his knees buckle and his eyes are suddenly level with her chin, she brings her right knee up and right into his already broken nose. He falls down hard. A couple of British and American agents who had been watching the entire exchange in amusement quickly rush to his aid, some of them throwing her dirty looks. From the corner of her eye she sees the familiar silhouette of Waverly. One look at his slightly askew glasses and she knows he's not happy, especially since Napoleon is not around to unruffle the feathers of his fellow countrymen.

"Will somebody kindly take Agent Jefferson to medical." Waverly calls out to one of the agents crowding around the wounded agent. "Agent Teller." He then gives her a pointed stare and walks back into his office, expecting her to follow him without question.

"Lose the gun and shut the door." She slams the door closed and puts her gun back in its holster. Waverly gestures to the chairs opposite his desk and she sits, anger radiating from her entire body.

"Do you know how hard it was to get the Americans to send those agents?" He asks her, a glass of scotch already in his hand. As he is a recovering opiate addict, something she knows she shouldn't know, it's not a good sign. The intel she received from Napoleon before he went radio silent must be real.

"Yes, although I don't know why there are even here. There are useless, lazy and only care about their own people." Her hand starts to throb painfully, but she refuses to let it distract her.

"Illya-" Waverly's eyebrows raise slightly. "Agent Kuryakin," she corrects herself, "has been missing for six hours. He has not made contact or shown up in any of the safe houses. Agent Jefferson was supposed to be his backup." She knows her voice is rising to a level higher than normal, but she can't seem to reign in her anger.

"I know Agent Kuryakin is important to you but there's no need to—"

"If you call me hysterical, I might forget that you're my superior officer."

"I wouldn't think of it, my dear." His voice is light, but it feels false. He's always been a hard person to read and something about him makes it impossible for her to completely trust him.

"I already have men searching for him. You, however, have your own mission to worry about." He needlessly reminds her, referring to the Madrid job she's currently prepping for.

She had relentlessly argued and managed to convince Waverly she was ready for command of her own team. He had given in to her request, even though he had his reservations when she didn't ask for Napoleon or Illya to be a part of that team. Napoleon had taken the news well, but Illya had refused to talk to her for the past two weeks. It's partly why his disappearance now makes her more anxious than the other times he's gone missing. The thought of their last moments together filled with fighting fills her with the worst kind of regret.

"So you expect me to just sit and wait for someone else to find him?"

"Yes." Waverly's blasé matter-of-factness attitude drives her insane. It always has.

"Is it because I'm a woman?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Gaby can start to hear the irritation in his voice.

"Then why?"

"Drop it Teller." He commands, a little bit of steel in his voice. She knows she's badgering him. She knows that she's only provoking him. But the thought of Illya out there, possibly being tortured or dead, drowns out the warning bells ringing in her head.

"You have Solo out there looking for him, yet you keep me on the sidelines. What is your goddamn problem?!" She slams her fist down on the desk, rattling the various tchotchkes Waverly has collected.

This time Waverly does not hide behind his expertly crafted mask of diplomacy. He's now looking at her like he can see every secret she's ever had…and she suddenly realizes she's gone too far.

With his voice low and eyes staring into her own, he answers her question.

"My goddamn problem, as you so eloquently put it, is that not only are not assigned to this particular mission and therefore should have no knowledge of Agent Kuryakin's disappearance, but also that Agent Solo is not the one sleeping with Agent Kuryakin."

Gaby's stomach plummets to the ground. She opens her mouth, but he stops her from speaking.

"Please don't insult either of us by denying it." He takes a long sip of his drink, watches as she silently processes this new information.

"If you knew," she finally manages to find her voice, "then why—"

"Do you still have a job?" His penchant for finishing her sentences, even now, enrages her.

"Yes."

"I've been watching you two closely for the past couple months and I do not believe your priorities changed or allegiance shifted. What you do in your personal time is none of my business." He's a bit defensive when he says that last part, but she doesn't sense that it's aimed at her. "You two are not the first agents to fraternize on my watch, and as long as Napoleon Solo is under my employ, you definitely won't be the last." This time she sees the corner of his mouth lift into a smirk and the rock sitting in her stomach shrinks down a couple sizes.

"Which is why I'm going to forget this conversation happened, and why I'm going to forget that you physically assaulted a Federal agent."

Waverly comes around his desk and looks like he wants to pat her on the shoulder, but that's not the kind of relationship they have. "Now I want you to go out there and continue doing the fine job you're doing and allow me to do mine."

"Yes sir." Gaby walks to the door, hand throbbing and heart heavy. Before she opens the door, she pauses and turns back around.

"When you find him-"

"You'll be my first call, Agent Teller."

"Thank you."

—

Twenty four hours later, supported by Napoleon, a limping Illya walks into the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and is swiftly deposited in a quiet room down a quiet corridor.

And true to Waverly's word, Gaby is his first call.


End file.
